


touch me once and you'll know it's true

by milkteeth



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkteeth/pseuds/milkteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s too drunk to think about what he’s doing as he thumps against the door three times with heavy fist. Too drunk to think about what the time is or whether anyone’s followed him. God, that’d be the money shot wouldn’t it? <i>Harry Styles stumbles home to Radio 1 DJ, Nick Grimshaw’s flat in early hours of the morning.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	touch me once and you'll know it's true

**Author's Note:**

> Post-seeing-Grace-Jones shenanigans. Inspired by a certain audio clip wherein Nick discusses his 'friend' showing up at 5am after deciding to sleep over. This is all fiction.

He’s too drunk to think about what he’s doing as he thumps against the door three times with heavy fist. Too drunk to think about what the time is or whether anyone’s followed him. God, that’d be the money shot wouldn’t it? _Harry Styles stumbles home to Radio 1 DJ, Nick Grimshaw’s flat in early hours of the morning._

When the door opens finally, it’s to Nick standing in the entranceway looking bleary-eyed and halfway between fond surprise and supressed frustration. Harry has never known anyone who could convey such complicated emotions in just one expression. Then again maybe he’s just used to reading too much into them. 

“Harry,” he sighs and Harry doesn’t look at him, just trips inside, sweeping past Nick in his sleep shirt and boxers. 

“You said come over,” Harry offers by way of explanation, stripping off his blazer and trousers and dress shirt last as he heads down the hall to Nick’s bedroom, ruffles at the front making the buttons that much more difficult to undo. He thinks Nick’s following behind but he can’t be sure, drunkenness numbing his senses. He concentrates instead on making his way to the bed. The duvet’s pushed down to the end of the bed and dishevelled, signs that whoever had just been in it had gotten up in haste. Harry feels a little bad for that. He probably should have remembered to bring his key so he didn’t have to wake Nick up when he came in. It’s not as though he hadn’t planned on going home with him before he’d even met Nick yesterday.

Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe he’d been fully intent on going home by himself, kissing Nick’s cheek goodbye at the end of the night and being good about it. And then he’d seen Nick and every thought he’d been having about trying to stay away had been unravelled. Maybe he would have begged to come home with Nick if it had come to it.

Harry gives up on the buttons as he flops onto the bed. Too difficult, he’ll deal with it in the morning. When he blinks towards the doorway he can’t see Nick anywhere. Maybe he’s gone to get ready for work. Harry’s not sure of the time but he knows it’s early. God, he probably shouldn’t have come. 

But he’s so sleepy, and the bed is warm and soft and smells of Nick everywhere. Harry turns his face into the pillow and breathes deep, pulling in lungfuls of the familiar scent. He’s so distracted by it he doesn’t even notice Nick slip into the room and slide onto the bed towards him, and he’s startled when he feels a pair of hands fumbling at his chest.

“Hi,” Harry slurs, turning his head to find Nick fiddling with the buttons at Harry’s stomach. He lets Nick coax his arms gently out the sleeves and watches as he drops the shirt over the side of the bed.

“Here, sit up,” Nick props a pillow behind him and places a glass of water in Harry’s hand, helping it to his mouth. Harry sips at it eagerly and watches Nick, whose hand is still clasped over Harry’s on the glass. 

When it’s halfway empty he pushes it away and Nick takes it, places it on the bedside table. 

“Half an hour, eh?” he jibes with a small smile, pulling the duvet back to cover them both and wriggling down under it. Harry mirrors his movements and curls closer, pressing his legs against Nick’s own and Harry would almost have missed tiny shiver Nick does at that if he hadn’t been looking for it. 

“Sorry,” Harry answers between yawns and Nick rolls his eyes, nudges Harry’s thigh with his and tells him to go to sleep. 

Harry tries. Assumes it will come easy since he’s drunk and tired anyway but ten minutes later he finds himself staring at the slope of Nick’s shoulder where it’s rising and falling steadily with each breath. 

It feels like ages since he’s been back here. And it should, since it has. Harry shifts again, trying to press his chest closer to Nick’s. He remembers something he read once about heartbeats falling into sync on contact. Maybe he could make that happen if he just pressed close enough. Maybe they’d stay that way forever, beating in time across continents, a steady, constant bond. 

Nick shifts too though, arm dropping to curl against his chest, protective, and Harry can’t move any further into his space. Doesn’t matter – stupid anyway, he realises, even in his drunkenness. 

“Nick,” Harry whispers, and that’s stupid too because he knows Nick’s already asleep. He has work soon, Harry remembers. 

“Nick, I–“ he stops and swallows. Nick’s eyelashes are fanned dark across his cheeks where his eyes are closed. His hair’s askew, fringe flopping across his forehead, over faded freckles Harry can’t see in the dark. 

Curious, Harry reaches one finger to trace along the line of his jaw. He’s gentle, careful not to wake him but he just needs to touch, to feel the rough stubble underneath his fingertip, something real. This doesn’t feel real, being back here in Nick’s bed. 

Harry had thought they’d had some kind of unspoken agreement that he wouldn’t sleep over anymore. Was sure that when he asked Nick tonight, tipsy, alone, giggling in the corner over icy slush at the bottoms of their glasses and other people’s outfits, that Nick would say no, that it was a bad idea. Harry should just go home. Instead, Nick had looked at him through dark lashes, mouth quirking and told him, “sure, Styles. Whatever you want.”

He wants to whisper it now, a silly string of words about missing Nick, about being gone for so long and places feeling like home, Nick feeling like home. Things he’s never sure he believes until he’s with Nick and that feeling, those places, draw it out of him. 

Harry rolls over and pushes the covers off, places one foot onto the floor tentatively and slips out, pulling a jumper over his chest on the way. In the kitchen he fills another glass with water and pads out into the conservatory, sipping at it as he stares out at the garden. It’s still dark out, and Harry, thinking more soberly now, checks his watch to see it’s nearly half five. Nick should be up soon.

Glancing around, Harry can see the new art Nick’s put up since he was last here. Tiny, incremental differences that Harry feels everywhere because there was a time when he’d known nearly every inch of Nick’s flat like the back of his hand, right down to the photo frames on the mantle. 

He steps closer to examine some pictures he doesn’t recognise on the side table. There’s one of Nick and Arlo, recent, Harry thinks, judging by the amount of hair on Arlo’s tiny head. One set shows Nick and Collette and Sadie, posing and making silly faces and Iris is there too, Nick’s arms around her, tugging her into the photo where she looks the picture of the embarrassed teen.

The mirror hanging above is new too, photos stuck into the framing, some of which Harry’s seen before but mostly that he hasn’t. Abruptly, he recognises a postcard wedged into the corner. A garish, overly touristy image of the Hollywood sign hanging over the hills. Harry places his glass on the table, barely checking there’s enough space to rest it there, and pulls the postcard out of its place to read the inscription on the back.

And he knows already, exactly what it’s going to say. Knows because he’d sent that postcard to Nick months ago when he’d seen it out the front of a souvenir shop in LA and the only thing he’d been able to think of was how much Nick would love it for its tackiness. 

Harry had immediately gone inside and bought it, and admittedly almost forgot about it until he found it a week later pressed between the cover and the first page of his notebook. They were in Vegas by then but – better late than never, Harry had thought. He’d scrounged around for a postage stamp hours after their performance that night and managed to get Paul to send it out for him before they left the next day and he hadn’t thought a single thing about it until right now.

Nick had never texted him to let him know that he got it and in the whirlwind of their tour ending, it had simply slipped Harry’s mind and never caught. 

But it turns out it had been here all along. Nick had received it and stuck it up in the mirror near his dining table. With all the other pictures and knick-knacks he favours, to see every time he walks past this space. This shrine to everyone he loves. 

Harry blinks at the words on the back of the card. 

_Wish you were here_ , they say. No ‘Love Harry’ or indication it was he who’d sent it. Just those words alongside Nick’s hastily scribbled address. 

Even at the time he’d worried it was too much. That Nick would read between the lines and see Harry’s unbridled sappiness for what it truly was in faded ink. Clearly it’d meant enough that he’d hung it up though. The thought thrills Harry, just the slightest. The idea Nick’s not forgetting him even in these long stretches away. And he knows it’s silly – they still text all the time, they share lots of the same friends – but he can’t help the irrational, creeping fear that one day he’ll come home after months and months away and call Nick up and he’ll answer, “ _sorry, remind me who you are again? Harry, is it? I don’t think I know anyone by that name_.”

“You know it’s the other way around,” Nick had told him once when Harry had admitted the thought aloud. His expression was incredulous, staring like Harry had just grown two heads or something. “ _You’re_ the big popstar! You’re going to be the one forgetting me! Some past it DJ with nothing to offer anyone.”

And he’d known Nick was just teasing with the way he twisted his head away from Harry, cringing in mock angst, but Harry had still leapt on top of him, kissed him until they ended up giggling into each other’s mouths, a laughing heap on Nick’s couch.

With a sigh Harry slots the postcard in its place and carries his glass back to the bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and finds Nick sitting up, scrolling through his phone, still curled under the covers. 

“Hey,” Nick murmurs raspily without glancing up. 

Harry shucks his jumper and crawls back into the bed. Slips underneath Nick’s arm and presses his face to the heat of his neck, mouthing softly. 

Nick lets him in easily and a few seconds later Harry hears the click of his phone as he places it on the bedside table and Nick’s arm is curling more tightly around him, bringing him closer. 

“Hey,” Nick repeats, softer, and if that’s the most invitation Nick will give him, Harry can run with it. 

In one fluid movement he swivels to straddle Nick, slotting their thighs together. Licks a short stripe onto Nick’s neck and punctuates it with a kiss as Nick tilts his head to accommodate Harry’s movements. 

Harry can feel Nick’s hands as they come to rest on his hips, not trying to push him away, just fluttering gently against the skin as Harry dips lower, kisses along Nick’s collarbone. He scrapes his teeth softly and Nick shudders under him and then Harry can’t wait any longer, has to lift his head up to kiss Nick properly, finally. 

Nick’s mouth is wet and open and waiting for him when he does, his lips soft and smooth and slotting against Harry’s perfectly. His own moan is muffled between their mouths and Nick squeezes Harry’s hips harder, pulling him closer so that his dick is pressed right up against Nick’s hip, Nick’s thigh hot between Harry’s own. 

Harry jerks forward, the friction of Nick’s thigh too good to be able to help himself. They don’t really have time for this and they both know it, but Harry juts his hips forward again quickly and Nick still doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, he runs his hands down to grab Harry’s arse, thumbs pressing hotly against the crease of his thighs and Harry has to pull away from his mouth, dropping his head to rest against Nick’s shoulder as he starts rutting properly against his thigh. 

“Come on,” the words curl into his ear as he lurches forward again. 

Harry’s unbearably hard already, can feel the dampness spreading at the front of his underwear as he keeps riding Nick’s thigh. He wishes they were naked suddenly, that he could shuffle over and get Nick’s dick properly against his own, but it’s too late for that. They have barely minutes to spare and Harry needs to come soon or he might not get to at all. 

Nick’s hard too, Harry can feel it against his own thigh and he wants to do something about that but he can’t focus on anything but his own now imminent orgasm. If they had more time he could; could come himself and then slide down Nick’s body, take him into his mouth and make him come too. They could curl up together after and sleep through the morning. He imagines Pig scuttling in to jump on the bed and wake them later. Maybe he could have made Nick breakfast. A best-friend breakfast, a sort of sorry for being away so much, and by the way I miss you all the time gesture. Not just the sex stuff but the way you listen to my stories and make me laugh.

The sensation of Nick’s fingers shifting snaps him out of his fantasy and Harry sucks in a sharp breath when he realises what Nick’s doing. One finger shifts to jut at his hole, just circling lightly, that’s all, but it’s more than enough to get him there.

Nick kisses his jaw, murmurs something Harry can’t make out before prodding his finger harder against Harry’s rim and that’s all it takes. Harry jerks forward again and comes stickily all over his underwear and Nick’s thigh. 

They don’t move for what feels like ages, but Harry thinks is probably only a minute or so. If he twisted his neck just slightly he’d be able to check his watch but he doesn’t dare, scared of spoiling the strange, safe confines of their entanglement. Instead he keeps panting hard into Nick’s shoulder, waiting for Nick to ease him off and lay him back down to bed. Head off to work and leave Harry sated and warm and tucked up in his sheets.

“Harry,” Nick finally whispers, and Harry grunts in response. The full extent of his exhaustion is hitting him in the wake of his orgasm, and the thought of having to go and do interviews in just a few hours on so little sleep is only amplifying it. 

Nick doesn’t say anything else, simply wrangles himself out of Harry’s grip and manages to get Harry lying down, his head against the pillows. 

“Hold on,” he murmurs and ducks into bathroom. Harry’s vaguely aware of the tap running and then Nick’s returning with a damp flannel, wiping down Harry’s hip where the stickiness has seeped out from his underwear. His eyes are already drooping closed, and he barely has the energy to shift his legs to aid Nick as he pulls Harry’s soiled pants off.

Through his shuttered gaze, Harry can see Nick’s still hard and a surge of guilt runs through him. 

“Sorry, ‘bout, y’know,” he gestures vaguely towards Nick’s dick, eyes half-shut again.

Nick laughs wryly. “Don’t worry about it,” he assures. “You can owe me.” 

Harry smiles hazily at the idea, watches Nick as he heads back to the bathroom to get ready, dropping Harry’s pants in the laundry basket on the way.

After that, Harry drifts off. The next thing he’s aware of is the cool brush of someone’s palm against his forehead, sweeping his curls back to land a kiss there.

“You got an alarm set?” he hears and he nods sluggishly under Nick’s hand. “Kay. I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, snuggling under the warmth of the duvet Nick’s tucked over his shoulders. “Thanks,” he manages before he hears the bedroom door click shut followed by the faint sound of the front door slamming a couple of seconds later. 

He knows he has to be up in a few hours but he can barely bring himself to care. Harry feels happy and well looked after and so good wrapped up in Nick’s sheets, smelling of Nick, a little bit like home. 

He breathes a big sigh and starts to drift off again, thinking about his day ahead. Maybe after he’s done with work he can call Nick and ask him if he wants to have dinner. Harry can pick something up and bring it over and they can settle in on the sofa and catch up. They can talk about their days and Nick can tell him what he’s been up to while Harry’s been away. 

That would be nice, Harry thinks vaguely as sleep overtakes him. There’s not much he wouldn’t give up for that.


End file.
